but Keith still appears a little starstruck.
Samuel never initiates a conversation. His job is listening, not talking, as he once explained to me, but he’s also intensely private. If he knows every terrible thing about me, it took me five years to figure out he was secretly in love with my mom. Even then, I didn’t actually deduce anything; my mom had to announce they’d decided to start dating, but only if I was okay with it.
I’m not sure I ever gave permission. I think I was too busy standing before her with my jaw hanging open. I still can’t picture my mom, in her free-spirit yoga clothes, driving a tractor around her organic potato farm, with a man addicted to Armani—but then, no kid wants to imagine her mom dating. I think they’re happy. I guess I even hope so. But mostly, I don’t want to know.
Federal buildings have a lot of security. Samuel is meeting us because of the beer, which the guards either don’t like or surreptitiously hope to confiscate for later. Samuel takes one of them aside, murmurs a few words, and just like that we’re through. Keith continues his wide-eyed stare. I roll my eyes at Samuel and don’t even bother to ask what he said. I’ve never seen Samuel not get his way. That and his cheekbones are like his superpowers.
Upstairs, Sergeant Warren and SSA Quincy are already waiting. They both have cups of coffee and are chatting away like old friends. Territorial pissing match aside, they seem to have mutual respect for each other, which makes my life easier. Individually, they are solid investigators. Together, I should have double the chance of getting answers.
I’m still very curious about D.D.’s earlier meeting with Conrad Carter’s wife. Did the woman really shoot her own husband? Because D.D. implied the case wasn’t as clear-cut as the news reported. I’m trying out some strategy of my own: assist with D.D.’s investigation now with this little trip down memory lane, then interrogate the detective on what she knows about Conrad Carter later.
Samuel has booked a meeting room. Much like the one at BPD headquarters, it has a wall of windows, which will allow the others to observe from the hall. For the “visualization” exercise, Samuel has already said it should be only him and me in the room. I’m supposed to relax, which is already nearly impossible. Having other people around won’t help.
Now I open up the takeout and arrange the nachos and chicken wings in the middle of the table. Already, the smell wafts across the room. I wait for scent alone to transport me. I mostly feel like I’m standing in the middle of a federal building with soggy tortilla chips.
Samuel produces a glass. Keith does the honor of pouring out a beer. Again, we’re trying to be as specific as possible. Jacob always ordered Bud, always in a glass. Final touch, country music. I have a vague memory of it playing in the background. I’m less sure about the song. Keith already Googled country’s greatest hits from seven years ago and, while we were waiting for the food, compiled a playlist. He sets his phone on the table now and gets the party started.
Again, I wait to feel … something. Mostly, I’m self-conscious and awkward.
“We’re missing something.”
Four pairs of eyes stare at me. Not helping.
“Popcorn. There was popcorn in little red-and-white-checkered containers. And it shouldn’t be this bright. No honky-tonk is this bright.”
Keith heads for the panel of light switches. Samuel disappears without ever saying a word, meaning he must know how to get popcorn.
That leaves me with the two investigators. D.D. is eyeing the food in the middle of the table.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
“You’re always hungry,” Quincy replies.
It’s like they’ve suddenly become besties. This, I have a feeling, will be less good for me.
Keith can’t figure out how to dim the overhead bulbs. In the end, he shuts them off. Given all the light still pouring in through the glass windows, the effect works out nicely. At least it takes the edge off the room, makes it feel less sterile.
Samuel returns with a bag of microwave popcorn. He opens the bag, the smell hits, and for the first time I feel it. Like a door opening in my mind. I can smell the bar, the beer, popcorn, melted cheese. I pick up the glass, take a small sip, and then I can taste it, too. I’d been so thirsty, so hungry, so scared.
Fake-Everett. That’s